Protege
by Misery Severity
Summary: Lucy Loud is an aspiring writer who wants to make it to the big world. One day, her substitute teacher comes along and Lucy grows fond of her. Their bonding becomes stronger as time passes by and soon, Lucy becomes her writing protege. When Lucy becomes a famous writer, fame gets into her head and she experiences controversies of becoming a writer. Rated M for Mature Themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Loud House (C) to Chris Savino and Nickelodeon.**

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Chapter 1

My name is Lucy Loud. I am sixteen years old. When I grow up, I want to become a writer someday. I want to write everything I see, hear, touch, smell and taste. I want to write poems, novels and memoirs, and then publish them to the big world where everyone can read. I would become the next JK Rowling, Stephen King and even James Patterson.

That would be great.

But first—there are obstacles I must overcome.

Ever since all of my older siblings, especially Lincoln, entered college, things have changed. Really changed.

My parents have been too busy to take care of me and my younger sisters. They hardly have time for us now that they have tuitions to pay for Lori, Leni, Luna, Luan, Lynn and Lincoln. It was a lot. To make matters worse, Mom and Dad are hardly ever home. So, as the now oldest sister in the household, I was left in charge and having to take care of Lana, Lola, Lisa and Lily.

It was never easy: Lana and her animals are too rambunctious to handle; Lola is a spoiled brat who wants everything her way; Lisa is making everything worse with her crazy experiments that are not even necessary; and Lily—well, despite that she's the baby—is the only one I can easily handle since she's maturing so fast.

I ended up having to cook, clean, do laundry and grocery shopping. I hardly have time for myself. I can barely pick up my pen and notebook to write. I hardly have the time to do what I love the most and accomplish my ambitions as an aspiring writer.

The only time I can write is every night before I go to bed. I would sit on my bed under the dim light and write down everything in my journal. I want to record everything that has happened to me and then write it in my future memoirs, so everyone can see what I have been through.

I have been carrying this journal since my tenth birthday. It's big, black and its cover is made of pleather material. It is my prized possession. Inside this journal is my everything, from venting to writing stories, from poetry to recording everything my five senses have interacted. This journal really means a lot to mean; I would be pissed off if something happens to it or if somebody reads it without my consent.

I even gave my journal a name: Nyx. The Goddess of Night.

Every day, I would carry it in my arms everywhere I go in school. Students would mock me for being a dark goth who is so attached to her notebook. They say I'm an attention seeker based on how I feel about the world and the way I dress only in black clothes. Students would bully me because I don't have any friends and I am always by myself during lunch periods. All alone with nobody—but my journal.

They even hurt me for hiding something from them. Wherever I go, I always have my long sleeves grasped tightly into my hands. They would come up to me—and yank my sleeves up to reveal my scars. Self-inflicted scars, actually.

When I'm alone, I would conceal myself—and cut. It started off with paperclips and shaving razors. Now, I moved on with nail scissors. I regret with what I did to my own fragile skin, but this was the only way for me to relief myself other than writing in my journal. Sometimes, venting in my journal was never enough, so—I turned to self-mutilation.

Sadly, no one knows about me cutting myself. My parents would never understand and neither will my sisters and brother.

Most of the time, I see myself as a mistake; I don't belong in this world. Everyone seems to fit in while I don't just because of my difference. All the other girls are always with each other. Not me. I'm always different from this society.

They wear gold and pink, I wear black and white. They text to each other, I read books under the light. They have their own lunch table, I sit in the corner all alone. They go too clubs and house parties, I stay by myself at home. They laugh a lot, I cry with scars and marks. They're the cheerleaders, I'm the nobody in the dark. They sleep with boys and older men, I sleep with my teddy bears. They cheat on tests and steal, I get A's with honesty and care. They get all the attention, I get nothing but hate. They get their love and affection, I get their heartbreaks. They can sing Pop and R&B, they're the supermodels, they show their bodies on Instagram, I listen to heavy death metal. I watch bloody horror movies, I write poetry about death, I'm a vegan; they eat meat, they smoke with crack and meth. They shop at Gucci and Prada, I go to Spencer's and Hot Topic. They eat candy and chocolate, I eat fruits and carrot sticks. I want to be a rock band's lead singer, they want to be in beauty pageants. They want to go all the way with jocks, I want to stay a virgin Miss Independent. They're the dumb ones, I'm the serious know-it-all. I love and care for animals, they push me till I fall. I wear nerdy framed glasses, they get to wear contact lenses. They have puppy dogs in bows and bags, I have purring cats and kittens. They have blonde and brunette hair, I have black hair with purple streaks. They are pretty and peppy, I'm weird and scary, but meek. They know how to retaliate, I'm a very sensitive coward. They'd risk everything, I'd be praying forward. They know how to socialize, I'm nothing but a wallflower; they get together in a crowd, I become the butterfly loner. I'm just a good girl called Victim, they're the bad girls called Bitch. They're Aphrodite, Artemis and Athena; and I'm just someone named Nyx.

It's true. Very true.

This is why I don't have any friends.

Until… she came along.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Honestly, I don't even know who I am. I don't even know my own identity. Whenever I look at myself at the mirror, I don't ever see myself. I see a completely different person. Someone who is not me.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, will I rise up or will I fall? Mirror, mirror can you see? Am I someone else or am I truly me? Can you tell me what I am? Will I pass or fail the personality exam?

Am I the cheerleader or the goth? Am I the bookworm who reads a lot? Am I the hipster or the nerd? Am I the emo no one has ever heard? Am I the tomboy or the skater? Am I the mean girl with many haters? Do I cheer and smile twenty-four-seven? Do I break laws behind the 7-Eleven? Do I cry and bleed in pain every day? Do I study and read with no play? Am I the one who hugs the trees? Am I the one who kisses any guy with please? Do I exploit for wanted attention? Do I really enjoy staying in detention? Am I the one with A's in every class? Am I Miss Perfect without any sass? Am I the fashionista with lots of glam? Am I the rock star with loud guitar jam? Am I really shy, scared and quiet? Am I as loud and active as a riot? Do I play the classical violin? Or the hard metal drums with sin? Do I perform serene ballet on stage? Or a band that sings rock with rage? Am I a girl wearing makeup and a dress? Or a girl playing football and loves the mess? Am I the Evil Queen Bee of the whole school? Or the new wannabe who wants to be cool? Am I a nerdy geek who loves anime? Or a weird freak who scares others every day? Do I have a smile with a bright tone? Or a frown in a dark corner all alone?

Mirror, mirror on the wall, I don't know what I am at all. Mirror, mirror can you help me? Can you tell me what you truly see? I may not know what I am; I may pass or fail the personality exam.

Sadly, this is me every single fucking day.

Despite that I'm a straight-A honor student and a bookworm, I get bullied and teased by everyone around me just because of my lack of personality. Due to the victimization…

I turn to self-injury as an escapism. This is why I always wear long sleeves—to hide the scars and cuts I have inflicted on myself. When I'm at home, I hide from my own parents and sisters, and even Lincoln; they don't even know that I cut myself. I always lock myself in my room whenever they are home.

The only thing that knows my secret is Nyx, my journal. She's the only one I can rely on. Nobody else. She's filled with everything from what I went through at school and home to my venting about life being so fucking unfair.

It's time for English class.

I walk into the classroom and, as always, my classmates are chatting around before the teacher comes in. Of course, no one notices me—because they don't give a single fuck about me. I can tell that they hate me for no reason, just for being me.

Minding my own business—and trying my best to ignore everyone's gossip about me being an emo freak—I walk to my desk, which is in the front row. I put down my books on top and I take out a novel to read. It's Stephen King, the King of Horror Stories. That's what I love about him; not only he's the Edgar Allan Poe in this generation, I feel as if we have a connection with each other.

The book I am reading right now is "It"; I just love the parts where the clown was stalking the kids, as if they wants to murder them for no reason. I can't help but to think I might do the same with my classmates and other people I can't stand. Even Pop, Hip-Hop, Rap and R&B singers I hate. That would be great.

Just when I was about to turn to the next chapter, the bell rings. I continue to read before the last warning bell rings. I could hear my classmates sitting in their seats behind me.

My English teacher is never late. This time—she is.

It's been about five minutes and still, she hasn't appeared.

I wonder what happened to her.

This is where things have changed for me.

The principal walks into the classroom after five minutes of waiting for Mrs. Stein to show up.

"Class," Principal Price says to us. I put down my book, place a bookmark in between the pages where I am up to, and then close it before putting it away. Principal Price continues, "I have some bad news."

"Where's Mrs. Stein?" One of my classmates asks.

"That's just it," Principal Price answers. "She's having some personal family matters going on right now, so she will not be teacher your class for a while."

I am pretty disappointed. Mrs. Stein has always been my favorite teacher.

"So, in the meantime, you will have a substitute teacher until she comes back."

At that moment, a woman appears in the classroom. Everyone stops and stare at her. She has fair skin and dark hair. Her outfit consists of a white blouse, black skirt and black boots. She's also carrying a bag around her shoulder and her bag has a gothic design to it.

I couldn't help but to think that—I may be interested in her. At the same time, I wasn't too sure about her.

"Everyone," Principal Price introduces, "Please welcome your substitute teacher, Ms. Whitewood."

Everyone, including me, say hi to her.

"Hello, everyone." Ms. Whitewood gave us her salutations. "It's wonderful to meet you." She removes her bag and places it on top of the teacher's desk.

"I'll leave you to it, Ms. Whitewood." Principal Price says.

"Thank you, Principal Price." Then, the principal leaves the classroom.

By the time the principal is gone, Ms. Whitewood picks up a dry-erase marker, removes its cap, and begins to write on the whiteboard.

"Okay, class," She begins as she turns around to face us, putting the cap back on its marker. "I understand that your teacher assigned you all a book to read in class. 'The Bell Jar,' is it?"

I told her, "Yes, we are."

Ms. Whitewood smiles, "That's great! I just want you all to know that 'The Bell Jar' by Sylvia Plath is my favorite piece of literature. I always love the main character, Esther Greenwood, and I love how we almost have the same last name. I'd be happy to read it with you and then teach you the metaphors and meanings within this novel. Now," she takes out a copy of the book from the drawer in the teacher's desk. She opens to the bookmarked part that we are currently up to. "If you could turn to page sixty-six, who can read along paragraph four?"

No one is raising their hands.

"Nobody?" Ms. Whitewood asks.

When no one is answering—I raise my hand.

"Yes?" She points at me.

"I can read it." I answer as nearly all of my classmates groan at me always being the chosen one to read the book aloud. I ignore them and I read out loud to where Ms. Whitewood is pointing.

After reading several paragraphs, she told me, "Very good." She also compliments how I read in a college level. "Who can tell me what is the meaning of the bell jar?"

Again, no one is answering.

"No?" Ms. Whitewood notices that everyone is too quiet. "Well, then, I guess I have to—"

I quickly raise my hand again. She chooses me.

With all the information I have, I answer, "The bell jar is the metaphor of Esther being trapped within the society she cannot escape from, despite she really wanted to. She's trapped within her own little world where she is hearing the voices in her head and being incarcerated by her lifelong depression, whereas she cannot find the cure for. Overall, Esther is trapped by her inner demons and there is no way out of it."

Ms. Whitewood is impressed. "Excellent! Miss…"

"Lucy. Lucy Loud."

"That's some highly impressive extensive knowledge, Lucy. I can tell you have already read this before?"

I smile, "Yes. Yes, I have. It's one of my personal favorite works."

It's true. "The Bell Jar" really correlates to my own personal experience. That's why I love this book.

Ms. Whitewood smiles, "It's really great."

Then, we continue to read the book until the period ends.

The bell rings. Everyone leaves the classroom.

Instead of leaving, I decided to turn to Ms. Whitewood.

I tell her, "I couldn't help but to think that we have something in common, Ms. Whitewood."

She turns to me, "Same here. Again, I am so impressed with your extensive knowledge of the novel."

I shrug in modesty, "Like I said before, it's one of my favorite books in the classic literature category. I just love reading books that is based on my personal experiences."

"Me, too."

I am impressed as well. "Really?"

Ms. Whitewood brings her bag over her shoulder. "Yes."

I then say, "I really love depressing works by authors who were going through pain about life and that Plath is one of them."

She smiles again. "Me, too. Again. I have a feeling that you and I are going to get along just fine."

I couldn't help but to agree. I smile.

For the next several minutes until the next period bell rings, we begin to bond over books that we feel connected to our true emotions about life.

We finally revealed to each other that we love to read and write. Another same connection we have towards one another.

I look at the time on my phone. "I better get going. See you tomorrow, Ms. Whitewood."

She chuckles subtly. "Since we have many things in common, I'm going to let you off with a secret. I'm going to allow you to refer to me by my first name without letting others know."

"I can?"

"Yes. You may call me—Morgana."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Throughout these passed few weeks, Morgana and I have been bonding before and after class and during my free time. From there, we talked more about our love for reading books and our passion for writing. Out of all the teachers I have had throughout my years in school—Morgana is the closest one I felt with a deep connection. A connection in which I really hope will never break.

Now, the time has come.

When class starts, Morgana announces, "Class, I have some news for you." She pauses. "Your teacher, Mrs. Stein, is returning tomorrow. As much as I love working with you all, I'm afraid that this is going to be the last day for me to be your English substitute."

So today may be the last time for me to see her. I couldn't be any more disappointed. Morgana and I got along better than any students getting along with teachers. I wish she didn't have o leave. I want her to be my new permanent teacher. I mean, Mrs. Stein is great and all; it's just that—I feel too connected with Morgana and I don't want to be separated from her.

Unless Mrs. Stein is ever absent again in the future, I won't have her anytime anymore. There won't be another substitute teacher like Morgana. It won't be the same without her, at least to me. I'm going to miss our talk and bonding.

It just breaks my heart to see her go.

During our lecture, I quickly wrote something in Nyx without letting her or any other of my classmates know; I pretend that I am actually writing down notes.

_As of this day, Morgana won't be teaching me English anymore. I just wish she wouldn't have to go. I really want her to be my permanent teacher, so that our connection will never break. By the time she leaves, I don't know what I will ever do without her. I wish there is a way for me to be with her for as long as I ever dreamed of._

Right after writing this entry down—a thought came up to me.

I have made my decision.

The bell rings for next period. While all the other classmates are leaving the room, I got my bag from the floor by my desk and Nyx is in my arms. I go up to Morgana, who appears to be melancholic as she is packing up her things.

We make eye contact.

I tell her, "I'm going to miss you, you know."

Morgana gives me a sympathetic look, "I know. But—what are we going to do? I'm just a sub."

"I wish you are my permanent teacher. I really like you."

"So do I." She continues to pack up her paperwork from the teacher's desk. She is silent during her packing.

I break the silence. "I just want to let you know that is has been my lifelong dream of becoming a writer."

Morgana is astonished. "Really?"

I nod. I show her my journal. "I have been writing almost my entire life in my journal. I even named her Nyx, after my favorite goddess. I carry her around every day wherever I go in case I have something in my mind that I needed to write down." I hand her Nyx. "I figured since I really trust you the most and nobody else in this school—I was thinking if you would like to read it and tell me what you think of my skills."

She smiles, taking Nyx. "I would love to."

There, Morgana opens my journal and she reads through my entries from the very beginning. I can tell by her facial expressions that she is either shocked or saddened by what I have written down. Throughout her reading, I'm honestly scared of what she thinks. Everything there is mostly dark and depressing, hopefully not to her standards.

After a few minutes of meticulous reading, she looks up from Nyx—and she smiles at me. I smile back.

Morgana closes Nyx and she hands her back to me. She says, "You're writing is indescribable. It's very impressive. I love it." She places her hand on my shoulder. "You have such amazing coherent talent for someone your age."

I became elated when I heard those words. "Thank you so much."

She also learned more about my life in which she feels so much empathy for me. She now knows about me cutting myself whenever I am in distress, my parents are almost never home, I have been bullied in all my years in school for being different, and she already knows this but I have dreamt of becoming a notable writer at a young age. Morgana has also read my poems; she is impressed with my creative metaphors and imagery. All that written since I was thirteen.

"Want to know another one of my secrets?" Morgana asks me with a wink.

"Sure."

Morgana pauses before answering, "I am a writer myself."

I sure am surprised when she said that. "You are?"

She nods. "Yes. I actually have written something a few years ago and it was a hit."

"You did? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want anyone to know about my secret life as a semi-famous writer. Plus, fame didn't make me happy, so I decided to live a normal life as a substitute teacher. And since you trust me to read your journal, I trust you back to keep this in between us." Morgana smiles. "And because I am very impressed with your vivid writing, may I ask you something, Lucy?"

I nod.

"How would you like it if you were my little protégé?"

I'm slightly perplexed with her question. "Protégé? As in…"

"Yes. I would like to be your mentor," Morgana informs. "Think about it: as my protégé, I will help you get more inspired for your writing, getting yourself out there to express yourself, and even sharing your works to the world. I will aid you through all that with my advice and make you a more successful writer."

I thought about it. I haven't had a mentor since Luan aided me to success to the creative world that got me the title of the youngest person to ever perform at the Royal Woods Theatre with my poetry. Now that she's in college, I currently have no one to help me succeed with my passion for writing since she is too busy with her studies and her career as a comedienne.

Morgana asks, "So, Lucy. What do you say?"

I let out a smile. "Yes. I would like that."


End file.
